


Don't Tell Vesemir

by rawrkinjd



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Eskel Has a Big Dick (The Witcher), Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, M/M, Multi, Switch Eskel (The Witcher), Wreckskel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2020-12-29
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:48:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28407252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rawrkinjd/pseuds/rawrkinjd
Summary: Eskel is always portrayed as kind, mature and level. His reputation paints him as the Golden Boy of Kaer Morhen, and Vesemir thinks the sun shines out of his backside. Eskel thrives off of it and it serves him well when picking up contracts. Over the course of a handful of years, the evidence of Eskel’s eskel-pades mounts until Vesemir’s presented with it firsthand.Five times the others catch Eskel being naughty (but Vesemir doesn’t believe them), and one time when Vesemir sees the evidence for himself.
Relationships: Eskel (The Witcher)/Original Character(s)
Comments: 43
Kudos: 138





	Don't Tell Vesemir

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier attends a sex party. He's expecting to run into a lot of familiar faces, but not _that_ one.

* * *

Jaskier straightens his collar and poses elegantly in the floor length mirror. The plum coloured doublet, with its darker detailing and puffy sleeves, complements his frame perfectly. Emphasising his shoulders, narrowing his waist and hips; it leads down into matching breeches that pull tight around his backside. His calves are nicely accentuated by the stiff leather of his riding boots and he twirls to admire them. 

One might argue that his additional attention to detail is both vain and pointless. His clothes won’t remain on his body for long after his arrival. They never do. But the wrapping was as important as the gift within when enticing prospective bad partners. A little something to excite all the senses; bright, soft clothing, expensive cologne and a gentle, lyrical voice to tempt them over.

You see, dear reader, Jaskier is heading to a very different kind of party to his usual sprawling banquet affair, where he’s expected to pluck delicately at his lute and chirp like a starling on Beltane morn. This particular bash attracted the refined and wealthy—he's never really interested in anything else these days—but provided the opportunity for them to indulge in more intimate appetites. Apparently, they had managed to source a very exotic guest. Potentially a succubus. Geralt would lose his mind. Best not to tell him.

With one final fluff of his hair and neatly trimmed beard, Jaskier scoops up his most elegant cloak, his face mask and heads out into the street. When he arrives, the doorman recognises him, and bows his head respectfully as Jaskier sweeps by. The mask of black velvet will obscure his identity at first, but he knows it will slip away as the night progresses and the alcohol befuddles the mind. An attendant takes his cloak and then another offers him a silver tray of coloured ribbon. He’s to tie it around his wrist or in his hair to mark his preference. Topaz yellow for women, a deep, sultry red for men and an orange the shade of a late autumn sun for both. Jaskier selects the last and binds it around his wrist as he enters the first hall. 

On the surface it's just an ordinary banquet. Tables are laden with food and drink—upturned cups spilling deep, saccharine wine into rumpled tablecloths—with elegantly dressed courtiers standing around the edges. However, if one were to draw near and listen, the conversations were far from ordinary. Rather than drole, disinterested remarks on political strife, partners gossip and flirt shamelessly. When their words become more heated, their breath heavier, they disappear from the main hall into one of the adjacent rooms. The rooms that Jaskier is most interested in. 

He approaches slowly. Weaves through the crowds, exchanging smiles and obscured winks with a few familiar countenances. He sips wine and plucks himself a grape from a nearby tray—nothing too heavy—and pauses as a young lady recounts a scene she has just witnessed with breathless delight. “Oh, but he’s magnificent,” she whispers to her friend, who giggles emphatically, “I’ve never seen a man built like him. His chest, his hands, his,” she pauses, with a flush, “his prick. Oh, Joan, it’s… he takes men and women, sometimes three at a time. I’ve never seen his lordship fall apart like that. He cried. And the beast just kept going.” 

Joan flutters her fan, her blue eyes bright with shared mischief. “Perhaps later. As the climax of the evening,” she offers her arm to her friend, and they saunter away, dresses rustling as their hips sway, “who would’ve thought—a witcher at one of these functions.” 

Jaskier nearly chokes on the grape. He splutters, eyes watering, and washes it down with a quick gulp of wine. His first instinct is a stab in the gut— _Geralt_. Not because his dear white wolf isn’t welcome to slake his carnal desires with whatever personage he so wishes, but because Geralt has a rather lax regard for his own _self_. His ideas of consent are so… well, dear reader, _non-existent_ that he will allow anyone to do quite literally anything. He has entertained multiple partners before, but never in this context. Never on display to be _gawped_ at. Oh, and _‘beast’_ , don’t even get Jaskier started.

The troubadour abandons his schmoozing and dedicates himself to locating the witcher. It doesn’t take long. He just follows the evidence. Exhausted, sated bodies quivering against walls, only partially dressed; men gulping down wine as they reassess their sexuality and women deciding whether their marriage is truly what they want, or if they should throw it all away to pursue a witcher across the Continent. Jaskier puffs himself up and stumbles into the room, prepared to squawk and flap should his witcher require assistance. 

_It’s not Geralt._

The majority of the action is happening at the far end of the room near the fire. A man—a very familiar man—leans back against the curled arm of a chaise lounge with his lovers around him. Lovers. A woman gyrates on his lap, her head thrown back and her mouth open, her naked body ripples through every graceful movement, her round breasts glowing in the firelight captured in the sweat shining on her skin. She’s in ecstasy. Like the cock within her was gifted to this earth by the gods as she’s but a disciple. Her hands rest on a thickly muscled chest, her nails biting into honey toned, hirsute skin as she seeks anchorage, like a ship caught in a storm.

The man she rides isn’t touching her though; both his hands are busy. He grips one young lordling by the hip, his nose buried to his groin as he swallows his prick down to the root, while the other palms lazily at another in his free hand. Both the men are looking down in awe, their mouths hanging open. They’re desperate to touch. One cards his hand through the witcher’s hair, while another caresses his face; they’re nervous, their touches light. Amber eyes roll in appreciation and the resulting grunt nearly ends the man currently buried in the witcher’s mouth.

The exotic guest. Jaskier knows him by name. _Eskel._

Gods-damned _Eskel._ With his knitted jumpers, his goats and his chickens that he talks to softly, his bone-crushingly affectionate hugs and his deep, rumbling chuckle. Jaskier’s internal diatribe of disbelief is shattered as the woman finishes; a high-pitched, whining cry as she sinks down onto his cock for the last time. She falls to his chest and Eskel gives the prick against his lips one final lick before he moves. The change is so seamless—so very graceful. They all shift positions. Eskel lifts the woman gently from his lap and lowers her into a nearby armchair; he brushes her russet hair aside and kisses her neck before he draws away.

His next conquest shivers with anticipation as Eskel grabs him. The young lordling with curled blonde hair, whose cock still drips with Eskel’s saliva, climbs onto the chaise lounge as Eskel pulls him over. His forearms brace on the slant of the arm as the witcher lines up behind him. His back bows, his nails clawing into the satin fabric, as Eskel’s fingers slide between the spread cheeks of his ass. The witcher doesn’t allow his lover to panic though; he leans over and whispers in his ear. Something gentle, no doubt. Reassuring. A spoken embrace. The young man visibly relaxes and Eskel’s hand begins to move, easing his fingers in and out slowly. The moans arrive quickly. Initially timid, the young man arches wantonly and utters a request to be filled like his friend before him.

Jaskier, who has slowly moved from his position in the doorway to obscure himself in shadows, gets his first glimpse of Eskel’s prick. He’s very familiar with Geralt’s. They travel together; Jaskier has seen his cock and balls in every state known to man, and perhaps some not if he remembers one particular story—anyway, Eskel’s should very well belong to a wyvern. It’s long, and thick; it hangs heavily between his densely muscled thighs and he lines it up with his hand. A hand that barely covers half of it. Jaskier’s mouth waters at the delicious sound of pained pleasure Eskel pushes from his lover as he sinks into him.

One large hand rests on a narrow hip, while the other lifts the man’s chin up to accept the prick of his friend nearby. “Think you need all your holes full, don’t you, little thing?” Eskel’s voice caresses Jaskier’s ears; a low, deep rumble, like his vocal chords had been rendered in black velvet. The woman that had previously been set to rest flows from her seat in a single fluid movement, and then curls beneath the man impaled on Eskel’s prick to wrap her mouth around his weeping cock…

Jaskier leaves. Quickly. His breeches are tight, a dark spot no doubt spreading across his braies, and he decides to drink himself into a partial stupor to calm his nerves.

Half an hour later, the wastrel appears in the main hall and Jaskier watches him heap up a plate; he’s dressed, but with the most wanton disregard for the fragile hearts watching him from around the room. His breeches and shirt are on, but that damned shirt hangs open across his expansive chest, with its nail scratches and love bites on full display.

They lock eyes. Eskel’s expression goes through a rapid transformation; surprise, pleasure, realisation, shock and then horror. He walks over and clears his throat. “Jaskier.” 

“Eskel,” Jaskier acknowledges with a tilt of his wine glass, “or should I call you Don Juan?”

Eskel scowls and drops into the seat nearest, his food momentarily forgotten. “I didn’t realise you were here.”

“Of course you didn’t. How would you smell or hear me over the funk of that room? I trust you’re having a good time.” It wasn’t a question. The bard knows full well that Eskel is enjoying himself; his skin’s flushed, his eyes are bright. “Just popped out to gather some energy?”

“Yes,” Eskel smirks, wistful eyes flickering backwards towards the closed room in which he has been holding court for the best part of the afternoon and evening. “What’s it gonna’ take to keep this between us?”

“Far more than you could ever afford,” Jaskier offers his own salacious curl of the lips, “this is far too good a tale to keep to myself. I may just write a song about it.” 

“Don’t tell Vesemir,” Eskel says, and then huffs in irritation when Jaskier just smirks, “my entire reputation rests on being the ‘good’ one, you’d see me go hungry?”

“Oh,” Jaskier raises a brow, “is that a guilt trip? It’ll take more than that to steal the song from my heart.”

“Hm,” Eskel folds his arms and leans back in his chair; Jaskier can’t help but drop his eyes to the man’s lap and admire the huge bulge barely contained within the ties, “they won’t believe you anyway.” 

“Oh, my dear,” Jaskier places his cup down and steeples his fingers, “Geralt and I have been travelling together for decades. He reveres my word as absolute gospel. I could tell him the sky was as verdant as Brokilon and he’d believe me to be speaking a new truth.” Not strictly true, but Geralt valued Jaskier’s thoughts and opinions, even the one about the toad in the sea—Yen was completely wrong about the moon. One day Geralt would acknowledge that.

“Alright,” Eskel waves a hand and turns to his meal, “if you say so.”

“So,” Jaskier sweeps his arms wide, “may I take a position in the queue?”

“Think you can keep up? I thought I heard those old bones creaking a moment ago.”

“You profligate torturer of a man’s ego, you scoundrel, you—.”

“Let me eat this, then I’ll make sure you can’t talk for the rest of the evening.” 

“Splendid.”

A few weeks later, Jaskier catches up with Geralt and recounts the entire story. He expects the witcher to accept what he has to say and be just as scandalised by this revelation; Geralt had introduced Eskel to Jaskier as the ‘best of us’. Kind, measured and quiet, sparing with his smiles but for those he loved. A skilled witcher with a heart of gold.

But Geralt simply scoffs. “You’re talking horse shit, Jaskier.”

“What?” Jaskier’s eyes bulge. “No! I speak honest to the gods’ truth, Geralt. He had four people at a time. He was taking a man while receiving from another, then he pulled out this huge phallus and strapped it to a woman—and she gave it to him.”

“You need to lay off the wine at these parties,” Geralt sighs, but scrubs his hand over his bard’s head with a good-natured smile, “I’ve known Eskel all my life. Know him inside and out. He’s not the type, you probably saw someone else. Get on Daisy, we’re heading into Temeria for a few weeks.” 

“This is outrageous,” Jaskier mumbles as he climbs onto his mare’s back, “you’re questioning what I saw with my own two eyes. Bright as day, Geralt. His prick is—.” 

“Jaskier,” Geralt growls, “stop, I don’t need to know about your masturbatory fantasies. Keep quiet for the next five miles. It’s bandit territory.”

“Vesmeir will believe me,” Jaskier says to get the last word in, and then all he can do is sit and stew in his saddle as they ride towards the next contract.

Vesemir doesn’t believe him either. In fact, he suggests that Jaskier should probably moderate his drinking for the next few years or risk dying before his time.


End file.
